


When a crime breaks out all the cute girls shout, “Get the good looking guy"

by hondagirll



Category: Castle (TV 2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, F/M, in which beckett is the mystery writer and castle is the cop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-09 23:48:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20518466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hondagirll/pseuds/hondagirll
Summary: "Detective Castle, I assume? And you must be the …writer?"





	When a crime breaks out all the cute girls shout, “Get the good looking guy"

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted back in 2011 on my [now deleted] livejournal. This is probably my favorite Castle fic that I wrote and I was pretty bummed I never saved it before the purge. Thankfully due to the Wayback Machine and fic rec lists, I was able to find it again and am posting it here for posterity sake. Reformated a little because apparently empty line spacing was a THING back then.
> 
> Written for the re-writing history comment-a-thon on lj. For **austen** and her prompt: "beckett is the writer and castle is the cop". Title from a _Boy Meets World_ episode.

_"Then, one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...you give them a piece of you. They don't ask for it. They do something dumb one day like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. — Neil Gaiman_  
  
  
-  
  
  
It starts off with a murder – _oh of course_.

  
“Katherine Beckett?”  
  
Kate turns to see three large men standing in front her, arms crossed over their chest, slight frowns on their faces. She can tell from their casual but detailed attire –button up shirts, short hair, scuffed shoes- that they are cops.  
  
She is a writer, after all.  
  
“Miss Beckett?” The biggest one decides she’s mute (and or dumb, Kate later thinks) and reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out a badge. “NYPD. Mind if we ask you a few questions?”

He stares at her with an expression that declares he’s _really _all too full of himself and Kate hates him on the spot.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Elisha? Are you sure?”  
  
Kate doesn’t realize she’s clenching her hands into tight fists until she feels her nails bite into her skin, releasing a tiny drop of blood when she pulls back. She stares at the small droplet, unable to meet the detective’s gazes.  
  
“We’re sure.” One of the men looks at her gently. “She was found in Alley Pond Park by a jogger earlier this morning.”  
  
“Oh my god,” Kate repeats to herself.  
  
“Now –Miss Beckett, can you tell us, was your assistant having any problems with anyone here at work? Any arguments? Disagreements?”  
  
“No, none that I can think of,” Kate raises her head. “Elisha was a good girl. Young, bright. I’ve never heard her raise her voice to anyone once in the eight months since she’s started working for me. Everyone loves –loved,” her voice breaks on the last word, “loved her. Everyone.”  
  
They ask her a few more questions that Kate knows from her years of doing research for her novels are routine procedure –did Elisha have any boyfriends, how did she get along with the rest of the staff, had she seemed moody lately, depressed, etc; until they seem satisfied with her responses and leave Kate with a card requesting her to let them know right away if she recalls anything else out of the ordinary. She shows them to the door. The last one to leave is the tallest one, the one who had flashed his badge at her yet spent the entire meeting standing against the wall watching silently with his eyes. Scrutinizing her.  
  
She’s written enough murder mystery novels to know what he’s thinking.  
  
_I didn’t kill her, you bastard_, she thinks and is shocked when he grins.  
  
“Thank you for your time, Miss Beckett,” he says as his eyes appreciatively run the length of her body, from the tips of her three inch heels to the top of her perfectly tousled hair. She feels herself flush. “We’ll be in touch.”  
  
She re-thinks her previous judgment as she closes the door behind him.  
  
_Arrogant bastard_.

-

  
Two weeks go by before their paths cross. It’s the body of a thirty five year old Caucasian female, TOD 0345, discovered in her Manhattan apartment that brings them together again.  
  
Kate’s editor.  
  
Oh.  
_  
Oh_.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“We think someone is out to get you, Miss Beckett.”  
  
“You, can’t. I mean, nothing, nobody..”  
  
“Miss Beckett, how many novels have you written?”  
  
“Seventeen.”  
  
There is a touch of pride in her voice.  
  
“And how many times has the killer turned out to be someone the victims had in common?”  
  
_(Pause__)_  
  
“…I understand.”  
  
“Good.” Captain Montgomery gestures to someone outside the door. “It’s merely for your protection, ma’am. Just until we catch the son of a bitch who is committing these murders.”  
  
An officer enters the office. “Katherine Beckett, meet Detective Richard Castle. He’s one of the main detectives working on this case and he’ll be watching over you until we get to the bottom of this. He’s one of our best,” the Captain says proudly as the man turns to face her.  
  
Tall, broad shouldered, arrogant mouth and a handgun attached cockily to his left hip. She recognizes him instantly.  
  
Oh _hell no_.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It turns out however, that when a mystery writer has a real life murderer after them, all the famous contacts in the world cannot get them out of their current predicament.  
  
Drat.  
  
“First things first,” dictates Kate as Detective Castle follows her out to her car. “I don’t want you interfering in my work, I don’t want you interfering in my daily routine and I do definitely do _not_ want you interfering in my personal life. Got it? ”  
  
“Of course. Scouts honor, ma’am,” he replies with mock severity as he holds open the driver’s door for her.  
  
She doesn’t think to ask him if he was ever a Boy Scout.

  
  
Later, she will ask and she will find out he never got past Tiger Cubs. Apparently orange wasn’t his color.  
  
(Things are starting to slot into place now)

  
  
Facts she learns about Detective Richard Castle on Day One:  
  
1\. Detective Richard Castle is unable to sit still in a chair for more than thirty seconds at a time.  
  
2\. Detective Richard Castle likes to slurp his coffee. Loudly.  
  
3\. Detective Richard Castle enjoys humming to himself; often old, Broadway show tunes that Kate has no idea where he knows from. Again, loudly.  
  
“I can kill him,” Kate muses half–under her breathe as she types, listening to him in the hallway. “No one would notice. I can do it quietly, move to Switzerland, live under an assumed name-“  
  
A _crash!_ sounds from behind her closed office door and Kate closes her eyes and counts slowly to three.  
  
_One. Two. Three_. And _breathe_.  
  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
Day Two doesn’t go much better than Day One:  
  
“Is this all you do all day?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Really, you just sit and write?”  
  
“Yes, Castle.”  
  
“Just sit and write?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“That’s it? Really?”  
  
“Ye-_ees_.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“...where’s your martini? Your yellow legal pad? Your bitten to the quick, scuffed up, favorite ballpoint pen?”  
  
"Castle, I swear to God…”  
  
  
-  
  
A third body is found on Sunday. It’s a gray day, no rain, just cloud and thick humidity in the air. Castle stays a step behind her as they enter the bedroom and it’s a testimony to Kate’s iron stomach that she doesn’t instantly throw up at the sight that greets them.  
  
“Yes, that’s Maura. That’s her favorite scarf around her neck.”  
  
She turns, unable to stop the tears that begin to flow down her face and can say nothing more as Castle quietly hands her a Kleenex and gently leads her out of the room.

  
(How do you handle it, Castle?  
  
The first one is the hardest but it gets easier as time goes on. You learn to deal with the ugliness. Block it out even.  
  
Really?  
  
…No.)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
She’s a writer yes, but she’s never dealt first hand with murder like she’s being forced to now. She doesn’t mind writing about serial killers, warm and cozy in her apartment with that fourth wall mocking as she types words like “busted skull” and “sliced abdomen” and conjures up hazy pictures in her head. Reality however, reality is always different. It’s one thing when the body in the shallow grave is fictional, it’s another when you just had lunch with the alive version last Tuesday.  
  
Kate goes to the funeral, her third in as many weeks and when the press asks what she thinks of all the murders, murders that seemed to occur because of _her_ she finds herself unable to speak.  
  
Castle rests his hand in the small of her back as he ushers her away.  
  
  
-  
  
  
After a few weeks, they get into a routine.

He shows up at five am, relieves the nighttime officer and then joins her for her daily three mile morning run. One of them complains a lot during those three miles, so the other one lets them both stop and get a bear claw at the bakery halfway back as an incentive for their continued endurance. Then they get back to her place where they shower and change (separately of course, she has a guest bathroom) and then Kate drives them to the office, where she meets with her agent and publisher, approves books covers, attends meetings and goes over rough drafts.  
  
Her latest book comes out during all the mayhem (“I know this sounds uncaring,” says her agent with a shrug, “but all these murders are great publicity for your novel.”) and Kate knows Detective Castle read it because the first thing he says to her the Monday following its release is:  
  
“You killed Nikki Heat.”  
  
“Aw, you read my book.”  
  
He waves his hand vaguely. “That was for the case. Anyways, you killed Nikki Heat.”  
  
“Yes, I did.”  
  
“In a fiery explosion.”  
  
A smile tugs at her lips. “It seemed appropriate."  
  
“So what are you going to write now?”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“You. Write,” he says slowly, as if speaking to a small child. “You kill main character, you write no more?”  
  
“Oh, I will. I just haven’t thought of a new novel yet. Why?”  
  
“Well,” he grins mischievously and not for the first time does she notice the tiny dimple in his jaw. “I was thinking you should write, about me.”  
  
“What?”  
  
He preens. “Not me _per say_ but a character based on me. You know, a New York Cop. Strong, good looking, quick on the draw. Spends his days sweeping the streets and solving crimes to make sure that justice is served. Like Batman, only without the cape or symbol. Oh!” (light bulb moment here) “Can I have the fancy car? Please?”  
  
“You have a strong imagination.”  
  
“So I’ve been told...well?”  
  
“Castle. I am _not_ writing about you.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“No one would read it.”  
  
“I would.”  
  
He’s got her there.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
They don’t mention their conversation again but it festers in Kate’s mind for a few days after that, growing like a unwanted weed. The thing is, Kate’s a writer first and foremost and when a idea gets put in her head (even against her will) sometimes it starts to expand and evolve, taking on a shape of its own until Kate is so itching to write, she finds herself doodling out scenes and one liners on burger joint napkins and scraps of paper found in her purse until she can get back to her office. And that's whats happening now. Darn that man.  
  
She’s really got to talk to Lanie.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Truth be told, Kate dreads introducing Lanie to Castle because she knows it will go a little something like this:

(Lanie holds out her hand. "I'm Lanie, Detective. Lanie Parish."  
  
Castle shakes her hand for as long as she holds onto his (and it’s a long time). "Pleasure to meet you, I’m Detective Rick Castle."  
  
"I'm the publisher _and_ best friend."  
  
"Oh-_kay_...?"  
  
"Just so we're clear here."  
  
"We are."  
  
"Great."  
  
"Good."  
  
"…..Um, you can let go of my hand now."  
  
“No, not yet, _Detective_.")  
  
  
  
Actually, that’s exactly how their meeting goes.  
  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
  
She tells Castle a few weeks later, after she has the book and first chapter outlined out.  
  
Cue:  
  
Squealing.  
  
Lots of sharp, high pitched squealing.  
  
("It’s just a book, Castle. People write them every day.”)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He tells her the best thing about her writing a book about him (“Based on you, Castle. _Ba__sed_ on you.”) is that she actually gets to go on ride alongs with him now. They can visit crime scenes together and discover dead bodies and _won’t that just be so much fun?_  
  
She’s never met a man like him before.  
  
She’s sure of it.

Their first crime scene together, she almost threw up. _MauraMauraMaura_. Their second didn't fare much better. The third however, the third at least starts off well.  
  
The crime scene is familiar by now; covered body, yellow tape, officers in blue milling around snapping pictures and taking notes, the murmurings of a crowd contained thirty feet away. An officer approaches them.  
  
“Detective Castle, I assume? And you must be...the writer?” They nod their heads in unison as the officer leads them over to the tarp where body is concealed. The tarp is smaller than normal, more compact almost and Kate is confused at first until she sees the bent pink Barbie Princess notebook abandoned only a few feet away. Her stomach turns.  
  
It’s a kid.  
  
“Body was discovered by neighbors,” the officer says, gesturing to a middle age couple talking to uniforms a few doors down. “According to the M.E. she’s been dead since late yesterday afternoon. Probably was walking home from school.”  
  
Kate’s stomach flip flops again. Castle takes one look at her face and ushers her over to the nearby empty stoop.  
  
“Breathe,” he says, sitting her down and and forcing her head between her knees. “Deep breaths now.”  
  
“How -do -you deal with kids, Castle? _Kids_.”  
  
“You just thank God that it’s not your kid. That this time, that this _case_, it isn’t your kid lying there so still. Then you go home, hug ‘em tight and pray for it not to be them tomorrow.”  
  
He makes it sound so easy. But as Kate raises her gaze and takes one look at his hard, barely controlled face she knows it’s anything but.  
  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
  
The first time she meets his family, she nearly faints.  
  
“Your mother is Martha Rodgers,” Kate grits between her teeth as she pulls him across the room by his sleeve. “_The_ Martha Rodgers. Reigning Queen of Broadway, Martha T. Rodgers.”  
  
“I’m aware of my mother's faults.”  
  
“_Ohmygod_, your high rise makes so much more sense right now.”  
  
Castle rolls his eyes as Kate saunters away, grinning foolishly. Belated, she wonders when she got so comfortable around him. All of them, actually.  
  
See here's the thing, they got into her world.  
  
Or she got into theirs.  
  
Either way, the first time she officially met Ryan and Esposito, they spent the next thirty minutes explaining to her that no one actually says _perps_ anymore except, apparently, in her books.  
  
“We call them assholes now-“  
  
“_-a__-holes_.”  
  
“Creeps-“  
  
“_-creepers_.”  
  
“Scumbags-“  
  
“-_scu_-“  
  
“What the hell, Ryan? Do you want a .38 to the eyes, ‘cuz I got one right here?”  
  
“Sorry, man. Just trying to help the pretty lady out.”  
  
Ryan winks at her from behind Esposito’s back and Kate stifles her laughter. She now sees why they got teamed up with Castle, together they make quite the threesome. Subconsciously, she starts to figure the duo into the upcoming novel.  
  
Derrick Storm needs fellow cops after all.  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
“Your turn, Miss Writer.”  
  
Castle calls and Kate leans back in her seat, watches him smirk across the table. Their eyes meet and something flashes between them, something more than just the simple poker game. Kate sips her lukewarm beer and pushes a stray hair away from her face, noticing the way his eyes follows her fingers as they move.  
  
(Busted)  
  
She slaps her card down. “All in.”

  
  
Across the room, another game of sorts is changing hands.  
  
Lanie: Fifteen bucks on my girl.  
  
Ryan: I got twenty for Castle.  
  
Esposito: I’m in. Here’s ten, us bros’ gotta stick together.  
  
Alexis: Twenty on Dad. And here, here’s a twenty on Beckett. ..._what?_ I don’t like to pick sides.  
  
Martha: Oh, forty on the pretty novelist. (_Gram!_) Sorry kiddo, but I’ve seen this play before. Hint, the leading lady always wins.

  
One minute later: Kate lets out a laugh and punches a YES! in the air as Castle stares dejectedly at his only average hand.  
  
Looks like Martha was right.  
  
  
-  
  
  
Day 86 of their partnership and/or friendship (“you say tomato, I say ta-mah-toe, Beckett”) starts off normally enough:  
  
_Bpp. Bpp_  
  
“Beckett.”  
  
“Found a bo-_DY_.”  
  
“Do _all_ detectives always sound that pleased when they discover a new crime scene?”  
  
“Yes...”  
  
_(Pause)_  
  
“...No.”  
  
She laughs. “I’ll be ready in fifteen.”  
  
  
  
  
  
But it ends like this:  
  
“Beckett!”  
  
“...BECKETT!!!!!”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Kate spends the night in the hospital with a severe left sided concussion and wrists rubbed raw from where the rope cut into her but according to the doctors, otherwise in perfect health. They caught the sick _sonofabitch_ just moments away from carving into her face.  
  
(He liked her eyes)  
  
Castle refuses to go home. He lies out in the uncomfortable armchair by her bedside and when Kate awakes in the middle of the night with a start (_ElishaKatherineMaura_), she’s not too surprised to see his fingers entwined with hers, his arm partially resting on her bed sheets as he gently stares at her, still fully awake.  
  
If she were writing the novel of their romance, this would be THE MOMENT.  
  
But she’s not, so this is just another second in a long list of seconds ticking by and she closes her eyes and attempts to fall back asleep.  
  
She doesn’t let go of his hand though. And if she were being 100% honest with herself, it’s because he won't let her.  
  
Oh.  
  
_Oh._

  
  
The next day:  
  
“Yo, Beckett, we bought chips.”  
  
“And Madden.”  
  
“Richard, darling. You look like hell.”  
  
Her hospital room fills with people and Kate feels a strong rush of emotions (it’s the pain killers, she tells herself). Because the thing is, as annoying and emotionally jarring as Castle can be at times, she sort of unofficially got adopted into this makeshift family of his –this loud, colorful, annoying as hell family, but filled with a sort of warmth that Kate didn’t even know was missing from her life until now.  
  
It’s the type of dedication she can’t fit onto a page.  
  
She knows, she’s tried.  
  
  
-

  
A few weeks pass and things slowly return back to normal for her. Somewhat.  
  
Her parents finally meet Castle. They stop by her apartment unexpectedly one day to check up on her and he’s over, helping Kate read through some outdated case files for inspiration for her novel.  
  
  
(Inspiration? Oh really? _Mmmmhmmmmm_...  
  
Don’t you have books to publish, Lanie?  
  
No.)  
  
  
  
“He likes you, Katie,” her dad says, watching her mother and Castle in the kitchen. Johanna Beckett is showing off her culinary skills and at the same time, regaling Castle with tales of Kate’s childhood. He seems to enjoy the ones about her rebellious teenage years the best.  
  
“He likes you.”  
  
And really, it’s as simple as that.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
But no, it isn’t.  
  
Because they are Beckett and Castle. Not _BeckettandCastle_.  
  
She’s a writer, she’s acutely aware of the difference those spaces make.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Until a day occurs that turn them from Beckett and Castle into _BeckettandCastle._  
  
This is what happens. THEIR MOMENT finally arrives:

  
“Hey Beckett, wanna go make out in the back of the squad car? I got the keys-”  
  
“-Yes.”  
  
“……wait, YES?”  
  
“Yes.”

  
And just like that, it ends as simply as it began:  
  
Well, almost.  
  
Because Richard Castle and Kate Beckett solve more murders, write more books and manage to fall in love somewhere along the way.  
  
Which, everyone thinks, is as it should be.

  
_(fin.)_


End file.
